It only hurts a little bit. But yes, it still stings when people cautiously ask about my plans for Thanksgiving. By the way, they only ask to be nice.

And then their eyes glaze over with fear. They are terrified that, instead of telling them a big long story about where I am going to be, I might say something like, “Well as a matter of fact, I have a huge surprise for you. This year, I’m cooking! And you must stop by! I absolutely won’t take no for an answer.”

Occasionally, people still grill me about my culinary fails: “Is it true that you poisoned at least one of your husbands when cube steak was on the menu?”

“Well yes,” I splutter. “But it was an accident. The kitchen light was very dim. I simply could not see that the meat was green.”

“What kind of turkey would you serve if you were planning to cook?” they ask.“Jonathan Byrd’s, of course,” I reply with an eye roll. “You’re quite the comedic pilgrim. Aren’t you?”

“Will you have pie?”“Yep.”“What kind?” “Whatever is on clearance at the grocery store,” I say with a shrug.

None of that is what they want to hear. Someone who believes in kitchen miracles occasionally assures me that yes, I can successfully make cranberry salad. But why do I want to put myself through that unnecessary stress when I can buy that Jell-O-looking cranberry stuff that comes in a can? And move on to more important things … like maybe a nap.

Some women find pleasure in holiday cooking.

But me? I find all kinds of disaster, mood swings and more than my share of nervous tics.

“It is so relaxing for me,” one of my cooking friends always says with a smile. “I just lose myself in carefully slicing the ingredients for delicious winter soups.”

“You’re a freak,” I growl at her. “I can’t slice and dice anything except my digits. In fact, I have an entire drawer full of Band-Aids.”

In the kitchen I am nowhere near relaxed. In fact, I need anger management training. I have been known to hurl small canned hams at walls when I couldn’t get them open. I have broken wooden spoons over my knee. Bad words also torpedo from my mouth. Plus I hate to wash dishes.

More than once, when I was far too stressed to clean it up at that moment, I have simply hidden the mess of dropped eggs with small rugs then had to scrape the sticky rug fuzz off the linoleum with a butter knife.

I have thrown away pans and baking sheets because the charred remains of a treat gone wild was just too awful for even the cookware to survive.

So you are safe. You can ask me about my plans for Thanksgiving. And then I will ask you for your address and what time I should show up with doggie bags in hand, to join you for dinner.

Very often, women with husbands tell me that since I travel solo, I have it made in the shade. Yes, it’s been a while since I gagged into my hand while a male person snorted snot in the shower.

While I cook it, serve it and clean up the mess, I don’t glare at the lazy lump of lard in the recliner, either. But just to be on the safe side, I don’t even own a recliner anymore.

As a solo act, I can have anything I want for supper – even one of those frozen, loved-by-all-50ish-women Weight Watcher dinners.

Those perks are true and handy about being single.

However, just like every other part of life, there’s a down side to being a manless chick.

It is a lot more noticeable at this age than it was in my 20s too. It is difficult to constantly handle every single something alone.

Sometimes I am not only tired, I am downright exhausted with constantly being the only person rowing the boat.

There’s no one to help get the groceries out of the trunk. No one to figure out why the bathroom door is suddenly sticking. No one to help me get the car to the repair guy and then give me a ride home.

No one for me to complain to by saying, “Hey, I am winkin’ at 60 years old. I need a nap. And I don’t care who knows it, either.”

When I hear a noise in the middle of the night, there’s no male voice to say something comforting like, “Honey, that’s not really Charlie Manson and 17 other serial killers. You hear the tree branch scraping against the side of the house. Remember? Over the weekend I’ll get those branches trimmed.”

No matter how much of a feminist I am, I sometimes wish there was someone in my corner. Someone sweet who says things like, “I would never let anything happen to you. Go back to sleep. You’re safe.”

Yeah, I am definitely not much of a feminist when I wake up alone in the night with my heart beating out of my chest. I get worn out with doing it all – even when it’s time to chase away the monsters.

I am not nearly as burn-your-bra crazy I was for so many other years.

I don’t care who hears me say, “Only guys should change car tires. No way I can lift that.”

Only guys should spend 12 seconds on the telephone too. I’m a woman. That means I’m gonna jabber until lock jaw sets in. Last week I had a terrible cold that felt more like the black plague. And once again, my life alone flashed right in front of my face.

At 2 a.m. Thursday I was reminded that if I had a man, I would have also had soup and Sprite in the fridge.If I had a man, I wouldn’t have to memorize the signs of dehydration so I could gage my own distance to the door of death.

If I had a man, I wouldn’t have scared customers when I wandered through the pharmacy in pajamas, at a late hour, in search of cough syrup.

But then again, since there’s no man, I watched 462 hours of HGTV with absolutely no interruptions.

Sherri Coner

A former Southsider and an award-winning journalist and humor writer, Sherri Coner resides in southwest Florida. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com. She also speaks to women’s groups.